Patris Est Filius
by PythonFan
Summary: Roger Davis, looking far too healthy for a former heroin addict ten years into an AIDS diagnosis, was standing in his doorway. Could be a companion to Shelter from the Storm.


After an hour, it was finally quiet.

Mark paced across the room and began to remove the layer of watercolor-stained newspapers from the kitchen table. As he shuffled them into a haphazard pile, an emboldened name caught his attention. He hesitated only a moment before continuing the task at hand. He didn't _need _to read any further; he knew what it was about. And frankly, he just didn't have the energy right now.

Without a second glance, Mark strode the short distance across the kitchen to toss the newspapers into the plastic bin they used for recycling. Now, with a clean kitchen table and a rare hour or two of peace, he might be able to get some real work finished.

After pouring himself a cup of coffee, he sat down with a few files. Granted, his position as production assistant at _Buzzline_ wasn't much more prominent than his work as a transient cameraman. But it was a stable income, a pay raise that came with benefits. When the offer had presented itself, Mark had jumped at it.

He was on his third-go round with next Tuesday's schedule when there was a knock at the door. He'd been so distracted over the subject matter of the top story (divorce of a longtime Hollywood couple or surprise teen queen pregnancy?) that he almost missed it.

He didn't, though, and rose from the table, silently giving thanks that the knock had been a soft one. As he squinted through the peephole, however, the world momentarily went out of focus. A second knock brought back his attention, but did nothing to dispel the knot forming in the pit of his stomach. Mark straightened stiffly and mechanically opened the door, somehow expecting to see something completely different from the image in the peephole.

But it wasn't.

It was the same thing.

Roger Davis, looking far too healthy for a former heroin addict ten years into an AIDS diagnosis, was standing in his doorway. He was wearing faded designer jeans and a tight t-shirt, emphasizing a body that had deteriorated little, if at all, over the past half-decade. His hair was several shades lighter, professionally styled, his green eyes intensified by color contacts. But the awkward grin on his face was still betrayed some evidence of the old bohemian underneath.

They regarded each other a moment.

"Hey…" Roger began by way of greeting, his voice soft and hesitant.

Mark looked him up and down, wishing Roger would stop smiling. Mildly irritated, he crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. "What are you doing here?" he asked, his tone even and emotionless.

Seemingly put off by Mark's cool manner, the rock star's nervousness seemed to take over. His eyes widened momentarily and he refused to meet Mark's stare while formulating his answer. "I just…I looked you up. You'd moved, and I just…there's this story." He stuffed his hands into his pockets and shrugged, pursing his lips and directing his gaze at Mark's forehead. "I guess you heard?"

"About the story? Yes." Nodding curtly in confirmation, he deadpanned, "HIV+ rocker Roger Davis arrested for assaulting a hooker. That's Wednesday, on _Buzzline_."

"That's just _it_; it's not…!" The rocker began to protest, looking desperate. Glancing wildly around the small landing, he slowly calmed down. "Is it…would it be okay if I came in?"

Mark simply stared. No. Why should he? This is ridiculous; the asshole walked out almost six years ago, became a star, and never looked back. Why the hell should he be able to waltz right back like he'd only been gone for two weeks?

That's why Mark couldn't exactly explain why, after a moment, he stood silently aside, allowing passage inside.

Roger stood for a split second before flashing an apologetic grin and shuffling past Mark into the small apartment.

When the pair was inside, and the door closed behind them, Roger wheeled around. "I swear to God, Mark, I wasn't trying to get anything from her. It was after a party and I was a little buzzed, yeah…but I just went over to ask for a smoke. I don't know if she recognized me and just wanted the attention, or if she really thought I was gonna…I don't know. But this cop came by at the wrong time, she freaked out…" He was running his hands through his hair nervously, eyes wide. "Mark, I know I've been a dick. I ran out without any explanation. You don't owe me anything, but…you gotta believe me. I swear, they've got it all wrong. You _know _I'd never do anything like that. _You know it_." His voice grew a little louder with each statement.

Mark visibly flinched. "Please…just keep it down, okay?" Roger stopped, staring in confusion. By way of explanation, Mark muttered, "The walls are thin, and…my neighbors aren't the most pleasant people in the world. Okay?"

Silence fell again. They stood there, once the best of friends, now virtual strangers.

Mark felt he had to say something to diffuse the situation. "But…I believe you." He was surprised at the genuine truth in the statement.

Roger managed a half-smile before glancing around the room in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. "Nice place." he observed conversationally. "What made you leave the loft?"

Despite his feelings on the hooker issue, Mark wasn't feeling particularly chatty or hospitable at the moment, but a sick sort of urge prevented him from tossing the musician out on his ass.

"I got married."

Roger's eyes opened wide. He hadn't been expecting that, Mark knew. _If only you knew the whole of it_, he thought sardonically.

"Wow." Roger blinked. "I mean…congratulations." He swallowed, forehead wrinkled. "When?"

"About five years ago."

Roger nodded vacantly, a little shocked at the onslaught. "Anyone I know?"

He shrugged, nonchalant. "Yeah, maybe a little."

With a tentative grin, the guitarist arched an eyebrow. "She got a name? Can I, you know, say hi?"

Mark shook his head, his expression placid. "Not unless you've acquired ESP capabilities in your long absence." He stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "She died about six months after our wedding."

Roger stared, mortified. "Jesus, man, I'm sorry. I guess it's just not my day."

_You have no idea._ "Don't worry about it."

Still, Roger began to pace into the living room, now acutely aware of the discomfort between them. Mark picked up his coffee, now lukewarm, and stared into the glossy black surface for several moments.

"Oh my god."

Roger had used a wide range of voices in what was a fairly short period of time. He'd gone from awkward and silly to uncomfortable to anxious to bewildered to humiliated in a matter of minutes. But those three short words were so full of strain and angst and horrified shock that Mark had to look up.

When he did, he knew why. He hadn't even thought about the damn picture, but suddenly he was eternally thankful for its presence on the side table next to the sofa. Roger was across the room standing over the table, photo in hand, looking as if he had just seen the love of his life marry his best friend.

Okay, so that's exactly what he was seeing.

Picture frames littered every flat surface of the apartment. But Mark knew the one that his old friend held. He knew every detail. It was him and Mimi on the couch, just hours after Joanne's mother had married them. He wore dress pants and a white dress shirt, tie loosened around his neck. His left arm was wrapped casually around her shoulders, a plain gold band encircling his ring finger. Mimi, in a simple white sundress, smiled serenely at the camera, her head resting on his shoulder. She was waving, her own modest ring glittering from her slender finger. Her other hand rested lightly on her protruding abdomen.

Yeah, that was a hell of a picture.

Mark set the coffee mug down lightly on the wood laminate of the kitchen table and made his way slowly around the table and across the open floor plan of the small apartment until he stood a few paces away from a still-stricken Roger.

"My wife. Pretty, wasn't she?"

That was all it took. Before he even realized what was happening, Mark had been slammed up against the living room wall, pinned there by a single fist. Roger's face was about an inch from his own.

"I swear to god, you son of a bitch, what'd you do? What the _fuck _did you do to her?"

Mark stared into the intense green eyes and saw a familiar sight. He saw the old Roger, acting out violently to cover up his own pain and betrayal. Except now, in a matter of seconds, the trauma had increased exponentially. He was spooked and confused and lost. The cool and collected celebrity had vanished, only to reveal the wounded, struggling musician underneath.

"I married her." Mark's voice had lost some of its edge; partially because of the fact that he was being pinned the wall by an AIDS patient, but also because he felt his cool exterior begin to thaw as he watched his old friend's façade disintegrate before his eyes.

Roger's own grip loosened, and though he still gripped Mark's shirt, he backed off slightly. His eyes grew wide and glossy and he licked his lips. "You…got her pregnant?" he asked hollowly.

Mark exhaled. He had to be the one in control here. "Roger…she was already pregnant." He paused briefly to collect himself. "You thought she was cheating…and she wasn't. She was just…scared out of her mind." Roger's eyes remained wide open, his expression blank, as if the onslaught of information had caused his brain to short-circuit. "A few months later, there was an opportunity for promotion at _Buzzline_, and it included health insurance that would cover a spouse. And children." He swallowed before continuing. "No one could get a hold of you, she was falling apart in front of us, so one day…I asked her." For the first time, Mark couldn't look into Roger's eyes, and his own gaze dropped. "And she said yes."

Roger stepped back, as if absorbing a physical blow. Mark straightened a little, still leaning against the wall. "Roger…there wasn't anything there, I swear to god. She knew you were gone, she knew she was going, and so she did it for the baby." After a beat, he continued. "Think about it, okay? She was twenty, and alone and pregnant, not to mention scared and sick and dying." Suspecting that his attempts were doing more harm than good, Mark quickly changed direction, suddenly desperate to keep Roger from a complete meltdown. "She was my friend, nothing more. I never tried anything…I never wanted to."

At this point, Roger's eyes were glassy with emotion. He bit his lip hesitantly, dreading what he was about to ask. "When did she…"

"She hung on a good few months after he was born."

He looked down at the floor, releasing a shuddering breath. He rubbed both hands heavily over his face. A very audible sniffle escaped, and when he looked back up at Mark, his eyes were red-rimmed and irritated by tears.

"He?"

As if on cue, a doorknob rattled, as one of the doors off the main living area opened slowly. Hesitantly, a small figure, clad in a plain white t-shirt and soft navy cotton shorts, stood in the bedroom doorway. His long, dark waves were mussed, his large brown eyes a mixture of confusion and drowsiness.

"Daddy?" His little voice, clouded with sleep, echoed through the silence of the room. He looked first at Roger, then zeroed in on Mark.

"What's the matter, bud?" Mark inquired gently. After another moment of consideration, the barefoot child padded over to the filmmaker. "I woke up." he informed his father. "It was noisy." He glanced up at Roger, then instinctively moved a little closer to Mark.

"Did you?" Mark bent down slightly and picked the little guy up. "I'm sorry if we were loud. But, uh," he cleared his throat, "now that you're up, I want you to meet an old friend of mine." Shifting the weight, he glanced at Roger with an apprehensive smile. "Alex, this is Roger Davis. Roger, this is Alexander." He prodded the boy gently, "Say hi."

The little boy, now at the proper eye level, blinked at the musician. After a moment, safe in his father's arms, he seemed to decide that the stranger was rather benign. A shy grin, accompanied by a soft blush, crossed his tiny dark face. "Hi." he murmured softly before burying his face in Mark's neck.

Roger stood back, mouth slightly ajar, eyes glistening in wonder at the child. For the first time that day, his look wasn't one of discomfort. His entire figure seemed to relax, and there was an uncharacteristic gentleness in his soft response. "Hi." He swallowed the lump in his throat and pressed his lips together tightly, as if afraid of saying anything more.

Alex, still clinging tightly to Mark, wrinkled his forehead and fixed Roger with a pensive gaze. "Are you sad?" he asked quietly after a few moments.

Roger snapped to attention, shocked that his son—_his son?_—was asking him a question. He opened and closed his mouth several times, but no sound came out.

After several seconds of this, Mark stepped in. "No, kiddo, he's not sad." To emphasize the point, he smiled reassuringly and bounced the preschooler on his hip. "Now," he glanced briefly at his watch, "ignoring the fact that your naptime lasted about a half hour," (Alex giggled bashfully at this), "it's about lunchtime. You hungry?"

The boy grinned and nodded vigorously, desperate not to be sent back to his room.

"Okay." He lowered Alex to the floor, allowing him to scamper across the room. "I think we have some of Maureen's chicken and rice left over from the other night."

The little figure froze, turning around slowly, dark eyes widened in horror at the prospect. "Do we have to?" he inquired apprehensively, childlike distress marking his features.

Mark pretended to think hard on it. "Well, we'll have to finish it off eventually. But…since we have a guest today," his eyes trailed briefly over Roger, "I guess we could make an exception and order pizza."

Alex let out a joyful whoop, grinning ecstatically in a manner so familiar that it both pained and comforted the older men.

Roger watched the tiny boy dig out a coloring book and crayons from a kitchen drawer, finding it difficult to tear his eyes away. God, he was…beautiful. The events of the last half-hour, the last week, even the last six years, had been hellish, but time seemed to stop as he stared at Alex, forehead wrinkled in concentration at the coloring book picture in front of him.

Suddenly, however, Roger was aware of someone's eyes on _him_. He looked up to see Mark gazing at him, a small smile on his face. "You staying?"

Roger took a deep breath, trying to collect his thoughts and emotions and present a calm face. He needed time to sort through all of this. He needed time to get to know his son. He needed time to get to know his friends again—if they would even call themselves his friends anymore. It would be a long road back on borrowed time.

In truth, he wasn't really all that hungry. His stomach was still churning. But he knew what Mark was asking, and it wasn't if he wanted lunch.

"Yeah, I'll stay."


End file.
